


Art Class

by rainey13



Category: White Collar
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-10-10
Updated: 2012-10-10
Packaged: 2017-11-16 01:19:55
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,790
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/533902
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rainey13/pseuds/rainey13
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's a day Neal really isn't looking forward to at all, but sometimes things work out to be better than expected. (Set in Season 4, sometime after Parting Shots.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Art Class

"Good morning, Neal."

Neal turned away from his study of the early morning skyline, smiling as June stepped out onto his balcony. He'd followed his usual morning pattern – shower, dress, and open his door, in hopes that she might join him for coffee.

"Good morning," he returned, stepping toward the small table and pointing at the coffee press. "Join me?"

"I'd love to."

He moved to hold her chair, sliding it in as she sat down, and then he filled the second cup he just happened to have ready. Peter didn't come by early as often as he used to, but that extra mug still got used on a fairly regular basis.

Pulling out another chair, Neal sat down and picked up his own cup. "To what do I owe the pleasure of this visit?"

"Oh, it just seems like we've had so little chance to talk since you've been back."

"That's true. But you already had your Paris trip planned."

"Even so, I feel badly about not being here for you when Ellen was killed. How are you really doing, Neal?"

He watched as her hand reached across the table, moving to meet her fingers with his own. "It seems like I just found her again, and now she's gone," he admitted. "It hurts."

"You know you can always count on my ear, if you want to talk."

"I know I can always count on all of you, June. And thank you."

"It was my lucky day when I took Byron's suits to donate that day."

Neal grinned, lifting his mug in a toast. "Oh, mine too. Tracking anklet or no, I wouldn't have lasted long at the Empire."

June mimicked the gesture with her cup. "Would this be a good time then to bring up my ulterior motive this morning?"

"Are you kicking me out?"

"Far from it."

"Then you now have my ear."

"Well, first, are you busy this Saturday?"

"Not unless some big case comes up and the FBI hijacks my weekend. What's going on?"

"Are you familiar with an organization called Art Class?"

_Art Class…He could picture the invitation in Sophie Covington's home, remember the car ride on the way to the gala when he'd realized her driver had been bought, that she was in danger…_

He nodded slowly. "I am. It actually came up with a case recently."

"Oh, nothing bad, I hope?"

_Bad? Not with Sophie's smile…_

"No, not at all. Just coincidence."

"That's a relief! Art Class is hosting an event to give underprivileged children some hands-on opportunities to try art projects, and Samantha's class is helping with the concessions. I know we could use someone with your talent to help the children."

Neal gave that a moment of thought. It was true that he had no specific plans, and he'd probably just stay home, thinking about Ellen, worrying about the mystery she'd left him with. Plus, it happened to be his birthday – his real birthday, not one of the many he'd used for various aliases over the years. But the day hadn't been special for a long time, and he thought Peter might be the only one besides Mozzie who knew the real date.

Well, if Peter knew, then Elizabeth probably did too. The Burkes, however, had a long weekend planned out of the city for a conference Elizabeth was attending on behalf of the DeArmitt Gallery. And that ensured a few things. For one, Peter really seemed to be looking forward to a few days in Atlantic City with his wife, but he'd already been dropping hints about checking in frequently with Neal; maybe knowing that he was busy with June would help Peter pay more attention to Elizabeth. For another, with Peter out of town, one of the other teams would most likely be primary if anyone was going to be called in to work a case this weekend. And since Mozzie was also gone for a few days, he could be reasonably confident that no one was doing anything like planning a surprise party. He really wasn't in a party mood.

But maybe a day of art was just what he needed. He could always brood on Sunday.

"Where is this?"

"We have the student center at HostosCommunity College."

"The Bronx – that's a little beyond the end of my leash. I'll check with Peter."

"Maybe I'll just give him a call and encourage him."

Neal leaned back in his chair, smiling. "Does anyone say no to you?"

June patted his hand and got to her feet. "Not often, dear," she said, turning toward the door. "Not often."

* * *

Saturday dawned sunny and fairly mild for late March in New York.

As predicted, Peter had not withstood June's gentle persuasion. Neal had an extended radius for the weekend – though it came with a warning that Jones and Diana had instructions to check his location periodically.

_And Neal had just rolled his eyes at the news – he was going to the Bronx, not Bolivia._

He dressed casually, jeans and a comfortable Henley shirt. If the clothing came back spattered with paint or clay it was no big deal – and he'd know that it had been a successful day of arts and crafts.

Samantha's mother dropped her off early, and he helped June prepare breakfast for the three of them. He'd barely seen Samantha since he'd been back in New York, and it was gratifying to see her happy and healthy following her transplant.

She was also very excited about the day's event, and hurried them out of the house, a huge smile on her face.

June let Neal drive the Jag, which put a matching smile on his face.

And they were off to Art Class.

* * *

It was, in retrospect, one of the best days he'd had, certainly since coming back from his island adventure. It was good to immerse himself in art, and the enthusiasm of the children was infectious. Neal found himself going from project to project, drawing, painting, carving stamps into potatoes, and making papier-mâché globes.

Just now, he was helping little Josepha Laurents sculpt a rocket ship that was nearly as tall as she was. His hands were buried in clay, kneading it to make it pliable, when he heard her voice from over his shoulder.

"Well, that's certainly an appropriate project for Neal _Armstrong_."

He couldn't keep from smiling as he turned and saw her standing there, dressed casually in jeans, her blonde hair pulled back. "Sophie."

Her answering smile was sweet, genuine. "Modeling this on personal experience?" she asked, pointing at the towering rocket shape.

He moved the clay over toward the little girl, taking a moment to push her cardboard box space helmet back a little so she could see. "This is all Josepha's design," he replied, holding up his clay-covered hands. "I'm just the hired help."

"Do you think mission control would let you take a short break?"

Neal turned back to the little girl, breaking off a piece of clay and showing her how to first roll it into a tube, then shape it and flatten it to make fins at the bottom of the rocket. "You do three more of these, and I'll be right back," he promised.

Sophie was waiting a few feet away, holding out a wet towel from one of the clean-up stations. "You look like you're in your element here."

"I've always liked art," he agreed, using the towel to remove the worst of the clay. That still left plenty of paint and charcoal that would require more intense cleaning.

"I'm told you're the artist behind the stunning sketch of June Ellington up by the stage."

"Well, it's hard to go wrong with a subject as beautiful as June." _And actually, he figured he could do a pretty good job on a sketch of Sophie Covington for much the same reason…_

"I've worked with her on a few charitable events before. How is it that you know her?"

"She's actually my landlady. And her granddaughter's class is helping with this event."

"That must qualify as one of those small world scenarios."

"I agree." Neal paused, really looking at her. She seemed so much more relaxed than their previous encounter. Of course, kidnapping attempts weren't exactly known for easing tension. "You look great, Sophie. It's good to see you out and about."

"It feels good to get out again," she agreed. "Some of the pressure went away when the circumstances of my late husband's death were finally settled."

"No more paparazzi?"

"Oh, there are still a few, but apparently a simple rich widow isn't quite as interesting as a potential black widow."

Neal grinned. "Well, for what it's worth, I think you're still plenty interesting."

"Thank you, kind sir."

"This is a wonderful program you've started," Neal said, gesturing around the room. "The kids are having a wonderful time."

"And you?"

That brought out a full-wattage Caffrey grin. "There are those who would tell you that I'm an eternal kid."

Sophie's laugh was musical to his ears. "Any chance you'd grow up enough to have an adult dinner with me tonight?"

Neal hesitated just a moment, then gestured toward a table near one of the walls. "Sophie, there's something you probably need to know."

"That sounds ominous."

"I know Peter told you I worked for the FBI, but did he tell you I wasn't an agent?"

"I don't think he said that, but I got the feeling that you weren't."

"My ID says I'm a consultant." Neal sighed and reached down, inching up the leg of his jeans until the green light on the tracking anklet was visible. "I was convicted of bond forgery a few years back. This deal with the FBI is a kind of work release."

Her expression was unreadable as she looked first at the anklet, and then she raised her eyes again to meet his. "Are you dangerous?"

"Well, maybe to the white collar criminals we target," he admitted. "But never to you."

"And do consultants eat dinner?"

"We've been known to. But if any of those paparazzi are around…"

Sophie smiled and brushed her fingers on his forearm. "They'll wonder who the exotically handsome man at my table is. Assuming you say yes, of course."

That actually made him laugh. "Exotically painted right now, I think," he said, gesturing at the various shades of paint, clay, and ink covering his skin and clothing.

"Adds character. So, dinner?"

_Well, he had made full disclosure…_ "I'd love to."

"Do you know A Voce?"

"Columbus or Madison?"

"Columbus."

"I know it well, and I love it."

"I'll make a reservation and call you with the time."

"I'm looking forward to it."

* * *

Dinner had been amazing, and the company even more so. He found that the easy camaraderie he'd felt with Sophie while working her case came naturally – even as Neal Caffrey, not Armstrong.

The food was excellent, the wine sublime, the conversation varied and animated. They talked about travel – the Spanish coast, Rome, the apple orchards of Normandy. They talked about favorite authors, poetry, history. They talked about cooking, and wine, and strolling through vineyards at dawn. They discussed artwork and artists and tiny galleries on cobbled streets in Paris.

He talked about the ups and downs of being a consultant for the FBI. She talked about finding herself again after a difficult marriage, and an even more difficult time following her husband's death. He told her about the highs, and lows, of running to Cape Verde. She talked about her upcoming trip to San Francisco to start a west coast Art Class program.

Later, they walked to nearby Columbus Circle and watched the dizzying array of lights as the traffic swirled around them. When the early spring chill caught up with them, they got coffee from one of the stands in Central Park, laughing over the combined steam from the hot beverages and their breath.

They walked along the path, Sophie's hand wrapped in his. She sighed, leaning her head against his shoulder. "This has been such a wonderful evening."

"It has. This day has turned out so much better than I had feared."

"You thought the Art Class event wouldn't be fun?"

"No, it has nothing to do with that. I was glad June invited me. It's just…" Neal paused, and they took a few steps in silence before he continued. "It's actually my birthday. I wasn't expecting much out of it."

"Were you ever a birthday fan?"

"Well, for a lot of years, I wasn't staying in one place long enough to plan parties."

She gently pulled her hand free, sliding her arm around his waist. "And as a child?"

Neal wrapped his free arm around her shoulders. "We didn't have a lot of money when I was a kid. My mom, and my… Aunt Ellen…" He swallowed hard; her loss was still a raw wound. "They tried to make it a special day. Mom would make a cake, and they always made sure I got one special present. It was usually art supplies."

"But not always?"

"Well, one time there was a chemistry set."

She laughed, her breath warm against his neck. "I get the feeling there's a story behind it being only once."

"There might have been this tiny little incident with some sulfur, a Bunsen burner, and the curtains in my bedroom…"

"Oh, no!"

"The good news is that there was no structural damage to the house."

"And the bad news?"

"It stank like rotten eggs in there for weeks."

"Thus, no more chemistry sets."

"Back to art supplies the next year…"

* * *

In so many ways, he didn't want the night to end…

But it was March in New York City, and that meant temperatures not far above freezing at night. Even with coats on, staying outside too much longer would be uncomfortable.

All too soon, in Neal's opinion, the cab was pulling up in front of Sophie's home. He got out and hurried around the car to help Sophie out. Then he passed some money over the front seat, asked the driver to wait partway down the block, and took Sophie's arm to walk her to the door.

She had her key out and she unlocked the bolt, then turned back to him. "I had such a good time tonight."

"As did I." She was so close, and as her eyes lifted to meet his, he took the initiative this time, capturing her lips with his…

And it might have been minutes, or maybe hours, when they finally parted.

Sophie's hand curled behind his neck, angling his head so that their foreheads met, and she sighed, closing her eyes for a moment. Then she leaned back, meeting his eyes. "Would you like to come in, maybe for a drink?"

"Oh, that's so tempting…"

"But?"

He pulled her close again. "Sophie, there's just been so much going on in my life recently. I need to take this slow."

"Have I scared you off somehow?"

Neal smiled, leaning in to kiss her again. "Not at all. Slow, not stopped."

He felt her fingers running through his hair as she considered that for a moment. "I'll be back from San Francisco in ten days. If I called you when I get back…"

"I think I could be talked into dinner again by then."

There was a playfulness to her smile when she replied. "You're sure that wouldn't be rushing things?"

He returned the smile, leaning in. "I'd be willing to take the risk," he whispered, brushing his lips against her neck.

"Yeah?"

"Yeah."

"Then I'll call," she promised.

They kissed again, and he wasn't sure who started that one; he _was_ sure it didn't matter. Finally, they parted, and he took a deep breath, then reached around her to open the door. He kissed her once more, soft and short this time, and then took half a step back. "Good night, Sophie."

She touched a finger to her lips, brushed the tip softly against his cheek. "Happy Birthday, Neal."

He watched as she disappeared inside and the door slowly closed, as a light came on inside. He could picture her going up the stairs…

He probably stood there longer than he should have, but when he finally turned and headed for the waiting cab, his step was lighter than it had been for a while now. Ellen's death still hurt, and there were still mysteries surrounding that, and Sam, to unravel. But for one night, all had seemed right with the world.

_And maybe it was time to re-evaluate his opinion of birthdays…_

* * *

_A/N: Happy Birthday to Matt Bomer, October 11! Thanks for bringing Neal Caffrey to brilliant life._

 


End file.
